


The Windmill

by bttrmllw



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe, Existentialism, Fae & Fairies, Family, Friendship/Love, Gen, Surreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:01:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28903812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bttrmllw/pseuds/bttrmllw
Summary: AU.“My name is Sakura.”Sasuke withdraws his hand and glances back at the girl. “Sasuke,” he answers, more out of habit than friendliness. “Where are we exactly?”“Exactly?” the girl echoes, brows scrunching, “I would say somewhere between Longing and Eternity.”
Relationships: Haruno Sakura/Uchiha Sasuke, Uchiha Itachi & Uchiha Sasuke & Uzumaki Naruto
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	The Windmill

**Author's Note:**

> just a one-shot. no idea where it came from. *squints* maybe the fae or something. a little break from [Synergy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24791002/chapters/59951578) before tackling it’s spin-off series and sequel. something light and quick and easy. leggo~

.

.

_Beware the moon, the vicious sea, the creaking call of eternity; silent nights where time stands still and gleaming jewels and whispers kill._

.

.

It stands on the hill top, unassuming in appearance as it guards over the valley. Time has antiquated the frame, its body dilapidated. Ivy creeps up along the parts of the wall that are still whole before disappearing into the belly of the structure and grabbing hold as if the earth is attempting to drag it down. The blades are in worse condition, even in a strong breeze they would not budge; the sails have disintegrated into nothing, revealing only the skeleton of what was once a powerful fan. 

By all rights there should be nothing special about an abandoned windmill, except for the fact that it was not standing there a moment ago.

Sasuke blinks once, twice, before setting down his half-empty bottle of beer. He frowns, studying the windmill that _most certainly_ had not been there ever in his life. He grew up in this valley—as had his father, and his father’s father—and not once had a windmill ever existed on the hill. 

“What the fuck?” falls from parted lips and Sasuke stands, rubbing his eyes. Perhaps his brother was right, he has been drinking far too much. His frown deepens at the thought of him, sick in bed, in no better condition than the curious structure that has come to greet him in the ungodly hours of twilight.

Sasuke acts as he often does: without thought.

He stands, hops down the three steps from the porch, grabs a shovel, and heads towards the hill. It takes four steps for him to reevaluate (“You idiot, this has trouble written all over it, just go back inside and go to bed,” he mutters.) and then—

 _Sasuke_.

—he freezes.

Sasuke watches the windmill; the blades creak and groan then begin to spin.

Sweat from the summer heat drips down his neck, his dark hair is plastered to his forehead.

The blades spin faster.

He hears _whirring_ and then

  
  


_(Uchiha Sasuke.)_

  
  


nothing.

* * *

Consciousness comes to him in waves, ebbing and flowing.

It brings artifacts from faraway coasts: the creak of the floorboards, the chirp of cicadas, the smell of alcohol and the cool condensation of a bottle of beer, then an incessant _whirring_ that grows louder and louder. Disturbed, he pushes the drifts away, content to remain dry and cool beneath the shade of the awning over his porch where he surmises he must be reclining with eyes closed.

But unrelenting the _whirring_ comes, amassing on the shore of his mind until it crowds his awareness entirely. 

He opens his eyes.

Wide green ones stare back.

Nausea and surprise bombard him; Sasuke’s body is stuck between scooting away and leaning over to heave the contents of his belly. What he does is flop like a fish, landing on his stomach.

The girl speaks first, her voice far-away. “You can see me.”

Sasuke properly sits up, eyeing the stranger. She is bathed in moonlight filtering in from the rafters, with long (can’t be pink, must be a trick of the light) hair that falls past her chest. She is too-thin, malnourished. Everything about her suggests she has not had a proper meal in _weeks_ , perhaps months. She is the picture of poverty save for the pendant glimmering at her neck. His gaze finds hers and he frowns. “Of course I can see you,” he says.

“How did you get here?” she inquires, settling cross-legged on the floor.

It is then that Sasuke realizes he is inside the windmill. “I must have walked,” he answers, though his voice lilts in question.

She inclines her head to the side and asks, “You walked through a bucket?”

“Excuse me?”

“That bucket,” the girl elaborates, lifting her chin to gesture to the bucket at his side, “you emerged from it.”

“Excuse me?” he repeats, properly confused. When she doesn’t go on, he leans over to peer inside the bucket and blinks. It is filled with water but rather than his reflection, Sasuke sees his _home_ , his _valley_. It is most certainly his home because he can see the rickety rail, the paint job on the west-facing wall that he has not finished, the beer bottle he left behind on the porch. 

Tentatively, he sticks a finger into the surface. The image ripples like water but he feels only air.

“My name is Sakura.”

Sasuke withdraws his hand and glances back at the girl. “Sasuke,” he answers, more out of habit than friendliness. “Where are we exactly?”

“Exactly?” the girl echoes, brows scrunching, “I would say somewhere between Longing and Eternity.”

He nods as if he understands—and perhaps in some vague sense he does—and straightens, looking around. “Is there a door?”

“A door?” 

“You know,” Sasuke explains, wandering the small area and running a hand over the walls, “a hole where people can pass through?”

“Oh you mean the bucket? It’s right there.”

He groans, spins around to face her. “No I mean—” and then he stops because she is looking at him in a way that makes his chest ache. “—oh god, don’t do that,” he insists as her eyes begin to water.

“I am sorry, I cannot do this,” she laments, hand lifting to her necklace. “I am meant to kill you, and if I fail I will be doomed to remain here. But I cannot—”

Dammit, she’s crying.

Sasuke shifts from foot to foot, worrying his lip at the display. “I’d greatly appreciate it if you didn’t kill me,” he begins, but she cuts him off with a glare that does not match her face.

“Oh so you would doom me to remain here until the end of Time?”

“Er, well no—”

Sakura sighs, shoulders wilting. “You cannot return home through the bucket. That is simply my window into your world,” she explains, wistful. “Your only way home is with this,” and she holds the glimmering pendant between long, slender fingers. “You only have to touch it to return.”

Sasuke stares. “And you? How will you return home?” he asks, wary of approaching despite Sakura extending the necklace towards him.

She smiles but it is broken, a ghost of happiness. “I cannot.”

Something in the back of his mind screams ‘ _something is wrong_.’ 

With a determined frown, he shakes his head. “I won’t leave you behind,” he declares, continuing his inspection of the room.

* * *

He has her climb onto his shoulders, hoisting her up to reach the broken section of the wall.

Sakura manages to pull herself up and disappears. Just as she described his own arrival, she spills from the nearby bucket looking absolutely shocked and disoriented.

Sasuke swears.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

It doesn’t escape him that he should be the one asking her that. “I’m fine,” he dismisses.

* * *

There are no items inside the windmill, no tools, only hay. 

Together, they scour the piles of it, sweeping it all to the side to properly explore every inch of their prison.

They find nothing.

In a feat of desperation, Sasuke attempts to jump into the bucket, only to trip and fall into their neatly piled haystack.

“Are you—?”

“ _I’m fine._ ”

Sakura laughs.

Irate, Sasuke dumps the bucket over Sakura who squeaks in anticipation of water splashing, but nothing happens.

* * *

Time moves differently in the windmill, it could have been hours, or days, or years. The only thing Sasuke is certain of is that there is no exit.

With a sigh, he plops on the floor beside Sakura, eyeing the bucket and the home he has left behind. 

“You called me here,” he accuses.

Sakura is reclined on the ground, head pillowed against crossed arms. Her hair—which he has determined is truly pink, and what an absurd color it is—halos around her. “I did not. This windmill seeks out lost souls,” she says around a yawn. “But I am meant to kill you to escape.

“And I would...what?” he muses, “Replace you here?”

“Mhm,” the girl exhales. She falls asleep almost at once. 

Sasuke lies down as well, staring up at the dark ceiling. He doesn’t feel the pull of fatigue, or any human inclination for necessary things like hunger or thirst. It is as if he is stuck in—

He tenses then, eyes jumping to the girl. The pendant gleams at her throat, reflecting light that comes from nowhere. 

Something is definitely wrong.

* * *

It is many sleep cycles later that he begins to wonder if he will ever find a way out. Sakura wakes and sleeps as if on a schedule and it is through her mannerisms that he marks time. 

He, on the other hand, has not slept a wink.

“You must be getting tired,” Sakura says one day (or what Sasuke determines is a ‘day’). 

“I am fine,” he answers, once again studying the walls of the windmill.

“Hungry then?”

“I am _fine_ ,” Sasuke mutters absently, refusing to look at her.

“Missing home?”

“You know, there’s a children’s rhyme,” he deflects, “that warns of the entrapments of the fae.”

Sakura’s laugh sounds like bells. “Will you tell me?”

He does.

She is grinning, looking much younger than he recalls her appearing when he first awoke in the windmill. “Oh! That’s quite lovely.”

Sasuke wishes he never told her because she sings it to herself over and over

and over

and over

until she falls asleep.

He stares at her, unmoving. By the marks on the wall, fourteen sleep cycles have come and gone. The image of his home in the bucket fades and Sasuke can’t help but think that his window for returning home is swiftly closing.

And this girl, Sakura, who was gaunt and skeletal when he met her, appears youthful, bright-eyed. He wonders about her past, how she got stuck here, if this is a trick.

He thinks of the remnants of his family:

His older brother, his mentor and savior, sick in bed.

His younger brother, annoying and loud, a conduit of chaos but unerringly loyal.

The unpainted house.

* * *

“Good morning,” she chirps.

Sasuke has not moved the entire night. He sits, facing away, staring up at a hole in the wall where he catches glimpses of a lavender sky.

“Sasuke?”

He blinks. “Good morning,” he answers, not turning around. He knows what he will see: Sakura, color returning to her each day. Sakura, looking more and more lovely as time passes. It is a curious phenomenon, so apparent and disconcerting that it consumes his thoughts. “Tell me, Sakura,” he says, licking his lips, “how did you get stuck here?”

There is a pause, then: “I was killed.”

“As you are meant to kill me,” Sasuke says.

“Yes.”

“But you cannot.”

“No.”

When he turns to face her, his expression is hollow. “How exactly did you die?”

Sakura, resplendent in the lavender glow, hesitates.

That is all the answer Sasuke needs. “You have been killing me this whole time. There is no escape, is there? For both of us together?”

“This necklace is your ticket out. But I’ll be killed.”

“And why should I care if you die when you siphon a little more of my life, my humanity, away each day?”

The _whir_ of the blades fills the silence.

Sasuke turns away. “You lied before. You called me here,” he determines.

“How’d you know?” she whispers, sounding less ethereal than she has before (and it _kills_ Sasuke to hear it, to see her blooming more and more each day while he withers away).

He sighs, the sensation reaching deep to the marrow of his bones. “I never told you my full name.”

They do not talk for the rest of Sakura’s waking hours.

That night, Sasuke approaches her sleeping form, watching the pendant. It dazzles.

Perhaps it would be better to end this? If he is to die anyway, why not make quick work of it?

He reaches out, stops, and hates himself for being a coward in every sense.

“You’ve given up?” Sakura whispers, though her eyes are closed.

“I am sorry,” is Sasuke’s reply.

She opens her eyes, stares at him as his fingers hover above the necklace. “Go ahead then,” she whispers.

Sasuke’s hand trembles, he exhales. “I cannot,” he groans, “I _can’t_ kill you.”

“Why not?” Sakura presses.

Sasuke shakes his head, cards a hand through his tangled hair. “Because!” he exclaims, though he does not have the words to express his frustration.

Sakura—effervescent, lively, vibrant Sakura—smiles. “You’re an odd one.”

“Stupid, you mean,” he grouses, tipping onto his back to glare at the ceiling.

When Sakura laughs it sounds less like bells and more like summer.

* * *

“It is okay.”

Sakura is not paying attention, instead driving her foot into a hole they have begun to dig together at the base of the wall. She removes clods of dirt then drops onto all fours to properly dig with her hands. “What’s okay?” she hums back idly.

“If you kill me,” Sasuke says.

She freezes. “What?”

“I will not be angry,” he goes on, watching his companion turn to him, startled. Sasuke shrugs, leans back onto his elbows. “It is the way of things, no? I will not kill you. Who am I to decide who lives and who dies?” His eyes lift to the broken wall. 

“You’d sacrifice your life for my freedom?”

The Uchiha sighs, “You make it sound so noble. It is not so. It is surrender. Resignation.”

But Sakura has ceased her digging. “It’s not,” she says with so much certainty that Sasuke can’t help but glance her way. “It’s selfless.”

He shrugs again.

Sakura approaches, drops to her knees at his side, and eyes him in a way that constricts his chest, fills his stomach with lead. She catches his cheeks, smiles, and leans forward.

Sasuke only has a moment to register the feel of cool lips against his mouth before he finally— _finally_ —falls asleep.

* * *

“Sasuke!”

He blinks, drops the shovel on his foot and he hisses.

“ _Sasuke-bastard!_ ”

“What!” he roars back, twisting to see his adopted brother at the front porch, waving him over. And he freezes because— _what is going on?_

“It’s Itachi! He’s coughing!”

Sasuke has no time to ponder everything that has happened (or not happened). He sprints back into his home to tend to his older sibling.

Itachi sits up in the cot, splatters of blood sprinkle the floorboards. When Sasuke appears at the doorway Itachi looks up and his smile is more full of life than Sasuke has seen in _weeks_. “Little brother,” he greets.

Sasuke eyes him, alarmed at the color in his cheeks, the warmth and recognition in his eyes. “You’re coughing blood,” he notes, nearing the bedside.

But Itachi just inclines his head. “I had a bit of a fit but I feel better than I have in ages,” he reveals. “I think I’m finally getting better.” He has said those exact words countless times before but there is a gleam in his weary eyes that leads Sasuke to _believe him this time_. 

He returns his brother’s smile—“I’m glad.”

“Itachi!” the blond loudmouth exclaims, darting into the room with a glass of water that he sets on the side table, “You’re awake!”

Itachi laughs— _laughs_ —and arches a brow at the blond. “Astute as always, Naruto,” he says.

Naruto sticks out his tongue.

Sasuke’s vision blurs and for a moment he thinks he can see Sakura on the other side of the bed. When he blinks his tears away, she is gone.

“Sasuke, are you alright?” Itachi calls.

He wipes at his watery eyes, nods. “Yes,” Sasuke whispers, “I’m fine.” 

And he is.

.

.

**Author's Note:**

> **prompts:** bottle, windmill, bucket. 


End file.
